


Insomnia Ghost

by Orcinus234



Category: Captain Harlock
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But don't hug him, Gen, Logan Needs A Hug, Original Title is Original, Serious, Sickfic, Space Pirates, Space Pirates cursing, Suicidal Thoughts, Toshiro being the ship, Toshiro snitches on Logan, cursing, featuring Logan's plants, happy-ish ending, he doesn't like hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22265203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcinus234/pseuds/Orcinus234
Summary: "To regret or not to regret, that is Logan's 'downward spiel into unsafe thoughts and insanity aboard of ghost ship while holding bottled up emotions and secrets' question of the night."How does Logan keep the skeletons in his closet from falling out? There's so many.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Insomnia Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Serious nods to suicidal thoughts, It is a bit of a spoiler, I know, But I want to treat this seriously.
> 
> Edited: fixed grammatical and punctuation

It started with a raging headache and a runny nose after he woke from another nightmare. It was either a nightmare or just not being able to fall asleep; the insomnia was always a constant in his live. The constant nightmares started sometime after his tenth birthday. Logan supposes, eventually he was going to go under the weather – get under the weather –

Logan groans, turns to the nearest wall and whams his head against it, right next to the durable dark-shade window of his greenhouse. Unfortunately, logic dictates that whamming your headache against a wall does not ease it, only worsens it, and Logan’s head is proving that to be so. He doesn’t worry about anyone coming to investigate the sound this early in the morning – the nightmares and insomnia have decided that 1 – 6am is a wonderful time to work. It’s a great time for catching up on notes, inventory and research from other botanists, but concerning the care of his plants, he doesn’t really need all that much more info on their nighttime routine. The poor plants, they must be so very confused and must surely pity their caretaker.

Logan sighs. This is not what he needs right now. With some heaviness in his limbs, a stronger headache and possibly a small stream of blood on his forehead he walks back to his desk. The time on his screen says that it’s a couple hours before breakfast is served. Masu has forbidden him from helping in breakfast preparations – lunch and dinner she’s open to his help sometimes. It also hasn’t escaped his notice that while Masu still stops by for some herbs that he grows and to drag him to mealtimes, she has been more adamant on him staying out of the kitchen as of late. She’ll still stop by and drag him to the mess hall to ensure he eats, even if he sits at a table for an hour before breakfast. It was another “bad” habit of his, though Logan doesn’t fully agree that two meals or even one full meal a day is terrible for him. Three had always seemed excessive to him.

The headache buzzes painfully and the desk lamp is coming off as annoying. He feels tired, but that doesn’t mean he’ll get any sleep if he tries. He glances at the two doors in the room; one leads to the corridor and the other adjacent one goes to his room. He’s on a different floor than the common crew quarters, and his room comes with a washer, dryer and an attached bathroom. Privileges he doesn’t understand how he got. Only Harlock, Miime, Kei, Ms. Masu and Dr. Zero are granted such privileges. Logan doesn’t think he’s that special to deserve them after his previous actions. He’s surprised the crew hasn’t bickered about it. They only ever said that it must still be a huge downgrade for a rich boy like Logan. Rich boy was a common theme that surrounded Logan amongst the crew, but they aren’t necessarily wrong.

He drops the clipboard he was carrying onto his desk, raising his hand to wipe at his forehead. No blood, but a lot of sweat. He’s actually getting more sweaty by the minute. He groans and presses the heal of his palm onto his left eye, the right one covered with his sleep patch. He’ll _try_ to get some more rest. Try to save a lecture from the surprisingly intimidating teamwork of Masu and Dr. Zero. Ms. Masu will come get him eventually and will drag him from his greenhouse, but she gives him some peace and quiet on the mornings he does get more… sufficient sleep. She leaves a fair “travel breakfast” of a fruit and dry cereal. If he has enough days in a row of little to no sleeping, she will snitch to Zero, and god forbid they snitch to Harlock. The Arcadia – or Toshiro – already has.

He turns off his desk lamp and turns to walk around the shelves in the center of the room of plants. Usually the light of the stars outside the window is enough to safely maneuver around. Usually there isn’t a slim dark figure looming in his path between the walls of plants.

He switches on the lamp and pulls his blaster from the holster and flicks off the safety in less than a second – but the figure is gone. Logan holds his breath, listening for any sound out of place. He looks around but keeps his gun pointed at the same corner. Nothing happens for a long time, and although the desk lamp is on dim, Logan can see that no one is hiding behind any of the shelves. He keeps his blaster poised when he turns off the light again. Nothing happens still. He lowers his blaster but keeps the safety lock off as he walks around the shelves and walks back to his room.

It’s his mind playing tricks on him.

This isn’t uncommon for him. And admittedly, he hasn’t told Dr. Zero or anyone really about the figure. The doctor back at the academy said it was nothing, so he didn’t see why he should bother Dr. Zero with it.

Once in his room he flicks the safety back on and slowly holsters it. The figure appears in his nightmares and in the shadows throughout the day and even into the night every once and a while. But never, and Logan means never, has the figure appeared in the greenhouse. Not in this one and not in the academy greenhouse.

He peels off his sweater, leaving his undershirt on despite the sweat and proceeds to his attached bathroom to splash water in his face.

_**“Do you regret it?”**_ a voice whispers behind him.

His blaster is drawn and safety clicked off. Nothing is there. His heart is beating faster and the combination of ice cold water and sickly lukewarm sweat dripping from his face is uncomfortable.

When he’s dry-ish and back in his room in front of his bed, his hands are shaking violently as he detaches the holster. The blaster sits on the table, the safety off. He throws the holster on the trunk, drops his leather pants to the floor and slips into his pajama bottoms that had been left crumbled up on the bed.

_**“Do you regret me?”**_

The metallic thrum of the blast on the wall echoes painfully in Logan’s ears. The small burn mark sizzles a little, right dead center on top of the three older blast marks in suspicious accuracy. The Arcadia churns with power and dark matter around him, rumbling with self-awareness. Well shit.

His heart and his hands can’t stand this much longer. He places the blaster down – safety still off – and sits on the edge of his bed when his legs give out. His headache throbs against his skull, his eye burns and he feels like he’s going to puke right then and there. He coughs and groans but nothing comes up. After a minute, his heart slows down only a little, he’s still rattling like he's been stuck in the freezer for thirty minutes. He finally closes his eye, but he doesn’t feel any better, not even when his head falls to his pillow. He blindly reaches down with a shaky arm for his blanket that is bunched up against the wall, but it doesn’t bring him any warmth – any comfort when it’s over him.

The first time he shot the wall in his blind panic, Toshiro hummed in silent curiosity, but nothing came of it, no one seemed to know it happened aside from The Arcadia and Logan.

The second time, Toshiro snitched. Harlock had questioned him lightly, the crew joked a little about it, but they had left it at the anxiety that is common after a while aboard the Arcadia – especially considering the roller-coaster ride of Logan’s initial betrayal. Logan needing to watch his back and all that. They promised they wouldn’t do anything outside of the occasional and rare traditional pranks.

The third time, Toshiro locked him in his room and out of the green house till he spilled the beans. At least, Logan thinks that’s what happened. In his sleep-deprived daze and fear stricken mind, he may have hallucinated or simply imagined that’s what the ship wanted. Logan rambled something that was effective enough for Toshiro to open the door – only for Dr. Zero to poke his head in and quietly ask if he wants to come to the infirmary for a check-up. Logan would have given a bullshit excuse to get out of the trip if Kei and Harlock had not been standing behind the small doctor. Their eyes dared him to say no, but promised they would drag him there themselves if he did refuse. Dr. Zero was able to prescribe him some sleeping pills, but no one was yet able to wring out what exactly Logan thought he was shooting at. The pills helped well enough, but it soon became obvious that they weren’t as effective as they may have hoped.

The fourth time – this time – it had been a whole month since he last shot the wall; an amazing period of calm compared to the one and two week difference of the last three shots. Toshiro will probably snitch, but no one has arrived yet, it is still very early in the morning; an hour and a half at most before breakfast. Logan will only silently admit he’s scared of that now. He can only bullshit his way out of it for so long. His breaths feel labored and the sweat on his body is soaking his sleepwear and getting too unbearably cool on his skin. He’s shaking and he can’t tell the difference if he opens his eye or not.

_**“Logan.”**_

He honestly tries to flip around and grab his gun, but he can’t, he honestly can’t move. His heart is hammering in his chest, his ears ring and his head is banging.

_**“Don’t you regret it?”**_

The hairs on his neck stand up, the air conditioning is too cold on the parts of him that aren’t covered by the blanket.

_**“Do you remember.”**_

The whisper of the ragged voice echoes all around him, strung along the whistling and ringing. The existence of everything around him is perturbed by the sounds ripping at his ear drums. Light and darkness swirl and frizz before his eye, a static that he can’t hear but in his delusion he sees.

_**“Do you regret me?”**_

* * *

He’s standing in a room - white walls all around, but the floor beneath him is grass, damp from a recent sprinkler cycle. Small twigs and jagged stones poke at his bare feet. He hears absolutely nothing. When he shifts his feet, he does not hear the rustle of his clothes or the gentle crunch of the twigs and grass that he should. He can’t look down, can’t turn his head, can only stand idle save for small twitches. He can’t see the room around him, but knows what’s there in his subconscious. Then, outside of his power, he feels his head turn to the right. The dream world dictating his movements.

_**“Do you regret it?”**_

_**“Do you regret it?”** _

_**“Do you regret it?”** _

Logan sees himself. No – he sees his younger self, half his height, sweater and cargo pants slightly too big on him and standing barefoot in a mirror. His younger self blinks at him, as do all the hundreds of reflections of his younger self. His- young Logan’s expression is unreadable. Logan is granted small control over his own body and turns to face him – face young him completely. He does the same, his movements equal in the slow cautious steps they take; the reflections follow, one after another. Logan looks down at himself – his own grown up self – and sees his jolly roger leather, gun holstered, boots on and a white material-less floor. He looks up and catches the younger him and the reflections in last few motions of looking back at him.

“Do you regret it?” he asks in a voice, that can only have been Logan’s – but younger – the reflections echo him.

The hair at his nape raises, and although he hears nothing else but the distant echo of the reflections repetition of the question, he feels that someone is behind him.

When he turns to look, spared whiplash only by the unreality of this existence, he sees himself. He sees himself in his Gaia uniform without a patch or scar. The Logan of only three months prior. Expressionless.

“Don’t you regret me?” he asks, dead voiced.

His voice echoes.

“You should,” says a new one.

Logan turns again. Sees himself in the academy greenhouse, flanked by an empty hospital wheelchair and Nami’s coma pod. He’s dressed in an oversized sweater, sleeves rolled up to the elbow but clearly still about fall down. Muddied pants, boots and gloves this version of himself also wears.

There are no sounds other than the echo of the voice.

Logan takes a step back, but stumbles on uneven flooring. He takes a few more steps to right himself. All too soon the sounds of the Arcadia roar around him. _But_ …

Logan turns around once more. It’s the loading bay where he first boarded the Arcadia. There is no one around that he can see. The bay door is open, the folding teeth extended towards a horizon he can’t name. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tori-san sitting on a ledge. The bird looks at him, holding his gaze as the engine grinds at Logan’s ears at an exaggerated volume.

The far right tooth – Logan’s left – folds under the bay door, the metal squealing as it twists. If someone stood atop it, they would have fallen.

“This seems better.”

He sees that same younger him, barefoot and slightly too big clothes standing on the left most tooth. The sounds of the Arcadia dim drastically and the too small – too _emotionless_ voice of his younger self echoes more; raising and dipping in volume sporadically. They stare at each other, Logan taking a few unconscious steps towards the young Logan.

The second tooth squeals as it also folds. There is a whistle, almost like a human scream that slowly fades towards the depths below the Arcadia. There are only two more teeth.

“It’s much higher, up here.”

Logan tries to speak, but his mouth won’t open. There is a metallic taste at the back of his throat, a lump that he struggles to breathe around.

“It’s a long fall,” the young voice echoes.

Tori-san, up atop his perch, strains and bends his long crooked neck to peer over the edge of the bay door, looking at whatever is below the Arcadia.

_**“Don’t you regret it?”**_

The echoing question hurts Logan’s ears. It’s too loud, echoing and echoing in the voices of all the Logan’s in this cursed dream. He sees the third tooth fold, but can’t hear it.

A violent ringing in his ears and the warping of the ship around him throws him to his knees, but Tori-san and young Logan remain unperturbed.

“You should have done it,” young Logan’s voice is too clear. No echo.

Logan rises to his feet and stumble-runs toward his younger self. The squeal of the metal grates at his bleeding ears. He reaches. He reaches and grabs at his younger self.

But all he grabs is air.

So suddenly, instead of the falling tooth, Logan stands on a silver lined white ledge staring wide eyed at a paved entrance way so far below. He rights himself, wobbles from running and trying to keep himself from falling. There are people moseying about the nearby grand buildings. Their joyous laughter and tipsy snorts and giggles and clacking of high end shoes catch the breeze to be able to reach Logan’s ears.

“A part of you regrets it, I know,” a voice chokes on a sob.

It’s his younger self, stood right next to him. But now, even in the dark, with only the moon, the lights of the air dome so high up, other building lights and streetlights so far below as barely sufficient lighting up all these stories on top of his father’s penthouse, he can see the tears streaking down the young boy’s blotchy red and bruised face.

Bruised… painfully, yet not bruised enough compared to later. The memory reminds him. If he doesn’t _do it_ , it will only hurt more.

His younger self looks up at him after they both watch an elongated hover limo – glossy and clear – drive by on the road below. Tears are pouring down his face, his eyes – glossy and dark – are red rimmed from crying and furiously scrubbing at his eyes with his sweater sleeves, underneath he sees pale and pink lines wrap around the boy's wrists.

_**“Don’t you regret it?”**_

Young him looks down at his bare pink and cold feet – it had been cold that night, Logan remembers. He takes a tentative step forward till his toes are off the ledge, slowly followed by the other foot. Logan is unable to move, can only watch as this younger him, half his height and just as pale moves closer to the edge.

_**“It would have been better.”**_

The lighting and the angle make the dark purple bruise look too light colored. It’s still obviously there, but harder to see now. Someone honks a hover car horn somewhere below them.

_**“You should have done it.”**_

The building seems to shake with the thundering of running footsteps up the roof access stairs. But it seems to die down as background noise under the hiccups and near sobs of the young Logan.

His head moves against his will, his stomach churning as well. He feels a cold sweat, but there is no sweat on him. He looks over the ledge again and watches with frozen panic as the distance between us – Logan – and the ground seems to deepen further and further away. His head turns back to his younger self, but the boy does not look back. A new small bright light shines behind us, the ground shaking more. Only now does Logan notice that all other sounds except the hiccups and sobs of his younger self are gone. His heartbeat – No… the heartbeat of young Logan is faint but erratic.

Young – 10 year old Logan – leans forward, his left foot ever so slightly moving further off the ledge.

_**“You should have done it.”**_

The heartbeat grows louder in his ears.

_**“Don’t you regret it?”**_

Then… young Logan backs away from the ledge. It’s almost like Logan is watching it in slow motion. His younger self tumbling backwards towards the roof only for big arms to catch him. Logan can only really see his younger self as he curls in on himself, the faces of the bodyguards blurred and forgotten; their size in comparison to his small 10 year old body exaggerated in this dream. Too big to possibly be human, but humans they were. In slow motion he watches them fall onto the roof, the only sound is the erratically beating heart.

_**“Do you regret not jumping?”**_

* * *

His head thrums painfully as a he chokes on a breath, waking suddenly in what feels like an ocean of sweat. Logan tries to sit up but something- someone holds him down. He twists and turn, gets some leeway but not enough to get up. He opens his eye as a second set of hands join the first in holding him down by the arms and chest, but everything is fuzzy around the edges.

“Great Blackbeard, this kid is strong!” a warped masculine voice echoes.

Logan only suddenly remembers his legs, and doesn’t let the thin blanket he feels on top of him stop him as he curls and twists at the hip to kick at head of the man on his left – the first voice. The kick collides, not as strong as Logan hoped but the first set of hands let go for a second. Logan drags his arm away and turns to punch the guy on the right in an approximation of where his dumb face might be. The second guy easily ducks the hand thrown at him.

“Jesus, fuck!”

He already feels the unexpected weight and exhaustion in his limbs by the time the first set of hands are able to retake hold of his bare shoulder and wrap the other arm around Logan’s upper chest. Logan dimly realizes he doesn’t have a shirt on, but he thanks his sometimes lucky stars for still having pants on. It’s the perfect time to be thankful for luck after all.

“Logan – chill man! It’s us!”

“What is going on in here?!”

More voices drift and warble through Logan’s haze. He doesn’t recognize these voices. Doesn’t care. This isn’t his room – where he should be. The other voices get closer as Logan still struggles against the holds on him. His head hurts, but he thinks of his legs again. That’s what they will go for next and he still has his left arm free.

“Chillchillchillchill,” someone chants through wheezes. “God damn, cool your bucket man!”

The thin blanket was not tucked around him and fell after the first kick. Free of any minor roadblocks he plants his feet against the thin mattress – already feeling someone reaching for them – then pushes off to roll over the guy on his left who is still semi hugging his chest. He twists his right arm in the grasp of the guy on his right. With his free hand he roughly brushes along the first guys back and right side till he finds the blaster in the holster he suspected to be there. The second guy finally loses his grip from the twist with the help of the waterfall of sweat coming off both their limbs in the struggle.

“Logan – dude!”

Something crashes.

With the second guy not holding onto him anymore and the imbalance of his stance, the sudden shift in weight on his upper chest and head, the first guy that was holding him down has no choice but to fall backwards and let go of Logan to catch himself – lest he hit his head on the way down. Logan rolls the rest of the way off. His hands are slightly shaky as he fumbles with the gun. But all too soon, he backs up into a moving cart of a sort and whatever it is carrying and he falls on his ass.

His vision is clearer now, probably because the panic from being held down isn’t as bad now. He’s in an infirmary, he notices.

“Logan,” a woman says above the groans and clatter around him.

The safety of the blaster is off and he raises the blaster with both hands to the last voice he heard.

Time passes in an indeterminable number of tics of the clock. Logan is breathing heavy, his blood pumping in his ears. His hands still shake, but as no one moves, Logan takes the moment to scan the faces around him.

Seconds feel like they turn to minutes. And recognition starts to settle in for Logan, along with the relief that he didn’t pull the trigger. He probably would have been a bad shot for once if he did.

“Logan,” Kei breaths, hands raised by her head. “It’s all good. It’s us.”

The guys – some of the crew are behind her and look torn between being just the slightest bit impressed/amused and deep concern.

With a chest rattling coughing fit, Logan lowers the blaster. He hears a collective sigh of relief all around. The click of heals on the floor signal that Kei is moving quickly, and within a second, the blaster is gently pulled from his hands. His grip doesn’t fully release it.

_**“Use it.”**_

It’s handed off to the guy who was first holding him down – Butch – who rubs at the back of his skull. Kei kneels in front of Logan and wraps her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Noo,” Logan quietly whines through his parched throat.

“Yep.”

“Let -go,” Logan leans back to pull out of the embrace, Kei uses her remarkable strength and Logan’s exhaustion to keep him where she wants him.

“Deal with it,” there’s an authoritative edge to her voice.

“I’m sweaty and gross.”

“Shut up and accept it. You owe me this.”

In his peripheral, Logan can see Dr. Zero moving around the crew to get closer to the two on the floor.

“You know I hate hugs, Kei.”

Logan’s chin falls to Kei’s shoulder, her hair brushing uncomfortably against his sweaty face.

“Sorry,” Kei says, sincere. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not one for much physical contact, but you scared the crap out of us. Even before you woke up,” she tags the last part on at end when someone in the back gives a sarcastic ‘really?’.

Logan sighs, he feels like bone filled jelly left in the engine room, the image almost making him want to vomit as well.

“Just kill me now,” Logan rasps into her hair.

There is a moment of pause, then Kei pulls away, keeping her hands firm on his shoulders. Her expression is hardened, something angry flashes in her eyes.

“Don’t say that. Don’t even joke about that.”

She says it like it’s not ever said so casually in usual conversation almost daily. Perhaps, Logan thinks, he hasn't been keeping his bullshitting consistent enough that she was able to see through him. She says it like she cares if he would put a blaster to his head and pull the trigger or jump off the loading bay door from a great height.

_**“They don’t care.”**_

Logan doesn’t know he’s chuckling until he hears someone say:

“He’s delirious. Dude is fucking delirious.”

* * *

He wakes again in the infirmary to shakes of the Arcadia and thunderous but muted sounds of cannon fire. No one is around him and he’s levelheaded enough to remember why that’s actually a good thing after last time. He sits in the bed for a few minutes listening to the sounds of the battle going on.

Dr. Zero isn’t nearby, though Logan hasn’t tried calling for him. Seeing that he’s alone, that everyone else is occupied and that Dr. Zero can’t tell him what not to do at the moment – Logan stands on legs that struggle to hold him at first. His first destination is the closest computer screen, needs to know how long he was away from his greenhouse. He gets to the computer no problem, his legs already shaking off the tiredness in the short walk.

Three days.

_**“Weak. Pathetic.”**_

He hears the infirmary door swish open and hears footsteps of who could only be Dr. Zero. Logan keeps staring at the clock, He couldn’t have been out for three days with only one dream and not waking up at random times. Impossible.

“Oh! You’re up and moving already, fantastic! How are you feeling?”

“Someone better have taken care of my plants while I was out. And they better have been competent in their work.”

Dr. Zero skips up beside him and looks at the clock on the screen as well.

“The Arcadia has taken care of the usual light and misting cycles but we were able to get two volunteers to take shifts for the other menial tasks.”

Logan wants to argue that, but simply turns back to the bed. There’s only a dull ache throughout his body present from barely any movement in the last few days. On the little bedside table, there are two small jars of new sleeping pills and something that looks like it’s for colds. Logan’s _pretty_ sure this wasn’t a cold.

“The captain has suspended your blaster until the end of the week and has given me the order to have daily check-ups with you for the next two weeks. We can ease into the conversation but it’s in yours and everyone else's best interest that you talk about what’s been bothering you,” Dr. Zero walks up next to him and hands Logan a sweater he recognizes to be his own – from his room. It’s one of his favorites at that.

_**“Such a burden, you are.”**_

“You mumbled in your sleep, you know.”

Logan turns to look at him, humming in acknowledgment as he pulls the sweater over his head.

“You asked ‘do you regret it’ a few times,” the doctor looks Logan straight in the eye.

Logan turns away, towards the door and slips the bottles into the spacious pockets on the sides of his sweater. He does love his big comfy sweaters, but the doctor isn’t making him feel too much better after that last comment.

“You also said… something about jumping and falling.”

Logan walks to the door. But it does not slide open automatically. He breathes heavily through his nose and punches the door. Some pipe hisses nearby in warning, Toshiro not apricating the beating from within when it sounds like the one outside has subsided. The crew should be loading up any worthy cargo right now, they’ll be filing back in soon with any injured coming straight to the infirmary.

“Logan, I know this isn’t an easy topic to talk about, and it never will be. If not me, I need you to tell me who you would be most comfortable talking about this stuff with.”

“No,” Logan whispers, his head hitting the door; not hard, but there is still a sting.

“… I’m really sorry, Logan,” Dr. Zero says. “I admit I didn’t see them when we first brought you in three days ago, but someone did.”

Logan… doesn’t know what he’s talking about. With his forehead still against the door, he turns to look at the doctor through his fringe.

“What did you see?” he croaks.

Dr. Zero does look a little sheepish, but he is still rather calm.

“Your wrists.”

It does take Logan a good moment to get what he’s saying, and unfortunately pulling back the sleeve on one arm shows him what he – they _all_ \- saw. Logan raises his head again, sighs, then whacks his head again, harder this time. There is a small rumble around them that voices Toshiro’s discontent.

“You really should stop doing that, you could get some serious brain damage.”

“I-i…”

Logan can’t find the words. They all _know_.

_**“They know how weak and pathetic you are.”**_

The disembodied fucktoid voice is right. The crew could only think what everyone else at the academy thought when they found out.

“Logan, we want to talk about this,” Dr. Zero is suddenly next to him. “You need to talk to someone about this, even if you don’t think you do.”

“I can’t,” Logan wheezes. “I can’t.”

Through his hair that hangs in front of his eye, he can see Dr. Zero hold out his hand – to hold and squeeze. Logan isn’t really one for physical contact, so he doesn't accept the hand. Then a thought hits him.

_**“You don’t want to talk about it,”**_ the voice insists.

Logan… both does and doesn’t. He never has before and wants to but just _can’t_. He’s always wanted to shout it at the top of his lungs, but _can’t_. To whisper it in the dark, but _can’t_. To say it to his plants, but _can’t_. To write it across the walls of his room, but he obviously _can’t_.

_**“Attention seeker. Selfish.”**_

Logan idly wonders, if that article is still on the universe wide internet.

“Is that connected to the Uni-vex?” he asks, pointing to the computer he was just at a while ago.

“Yes, why?”

“There’s an article…”

“About you?” Dr. Zero asks, almost excitedly.

Logan just nods and walks back over to the computer. Once he gets there though, he hesitates and feels that need to back up, come up with a bullshit lie and run away.

“Is it about your… wrists?”

Logan stares at the screen, a war brewing in his head and making his stomach churn horribly – probably with hunger as well. This is a huge leap and commitment if he actually finds what he’s looking for.

“Can you… just,” Logan groans and runs a hand through his messy and oily hair, careful to not disturb the sleep patch over his eye. “For now I-i… I only want you to read it for now. Only you. Shit, can Toshiro even read things on the computer? He is the ship and – “

“I promise kiddo.”

Logan glares at him. Dr. Zero does the ritual of crossing an X over his heart with a finger.

“Only I will know about it unless you say otherwise. Not even the captain will get a peep out of me.”

Logan plops down into the stool in front of the computer and with fidgety fingers, starts typing out the key phrases that he can remember for the article, hopefully – or hopefully not – with the news video and pictures.

Headlines pop-up, but Logan uses his best magic from the academy days to dig past the recent headlines that are wanted to be highlighted – the ones that are not what he’s looking for. The article he’s looking for was buried quickly when it first appeared, but not cut off completely. It takes a minute but he finds it; news video and pictures included. He pushes away from the computer as soon as he’s done, as if the sight of the article and frontpage picture burned him. He feels like puking.

“Ping me later with the names of the people who volunteered in the greenhouse. I want to know if I’m kicking asses blue or paying back depts due.”

“Okay! Take it easy for today!”

The doors open this time, and just before they close, Logan can hear the doctor’s muted ‘ohhh…’.

**Author's Note:**

> Logan and Toshiro then proceed to disagree if Toshiro telling the others that he's not feeling well is considered snitching.


End file.
